That's why she felt that I had had to pay for her mistakes, and why she knew that I'd never compel my little girl to pay for mine.

She said that the mother lives in the heart of the child long after the mother is gone, and that was why the mother always had to be--so careful.
Then, before I knew it, she was talking briskly and brightly about something entirely different; and two minutes later I found myself alone outside of her room.

And I hadn't told her.
But I wasn't even thinking of that.

I was thinking of Eunice, and of that round, childish scrawl of a diary upstairs in the attic trunk.
And I was picturing Eunice, in the years to come, writing _her_ diary; and I thought, what if she should have to-- I went upstairs then and read that diary again.

And all the while I was reading I thought of Eunice.